


There's a Place

by shireisnotonfire



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Based on a Beatles Song, Drunken Kissing, Early Beatles, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mild Language, Musical References, sad boy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23557246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireisnotonfire/pseuds/shireisnotonfire
Summary: Set in 1962, the young and fierce Beatles perform yet another marvelous show at the Cavern Club, Liverpool. To the crowd, it was a life-changing experience to witness; but for John Lennon, the show was a complete disaster. Aside from the occasional missed entrance and hiccup, the one most worrying John is Paul. Paul, often quick with humor and critique, is anything but himself. Determined, John seeks to figure out what is the matter.After the show, John is hit by news that they need to write a song by the following day. Paul and John spend the night at the McCartney home, scheming away to make the perfect song to pitch for tomorrow's meeting.But as the night grows long and emotions become tense, both Paul and John begin to question the nature of their friendship, their band, and their futures.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 21
Kudos: 76





	1. The Missed Entrance

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya friends! This is a 5-chapter story. If you really enjoy it, let me know! I hopefully will write more Beatles fanfiction in the future. xx

With his fists tight in distal rage, John was the first to leave the stage without sparing a glance. Parting through the roaring crowd, he managed himself towards the private parlor. Both security and screaming girls followed him. The normal entourage were quick to intervene, shooing the fans away from the obviously uninterested John Lennon. 

Shutting the curtains tightly behind him, John could at last take a deep sigh. It had been a while since he had his last cigarette (three hours, to be precise). His hands began to fidget, to which he immediately shoved them into his pockets, only to find them empty. He muttered under his breath. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the bar and its spritely bartender. The bartender was a young man, not much older than the lads, with a thick Mancunian accent. Waving his hands, the bartender hollered, “Sound show tonight, lad! How is it that you mates-”

“Bourbon no ice.”

John slowly made his way towards the bar with his arms folded and his mind elsewhere. The bartender tilted his head, curious. Yet from the disdainful look in John’s eyes, the bartender knew better than to ask.

“A’righ, on it.”

As the bartender turned away to make the drink, John took his spot at the end of the bar. With his elbows against the bar, he covered his face with his hands. It was a feverish night. Feverish, in the sense that both he and George had spiking fevers for the past three days, and in the sense that **nothing** seemed right. Among many other mistakes, John was off-key, George had missed an entrance, and the crowd was still shouting shit about Ringo.

But the thing that bothered John the most wasn’t a mistake, but it was Paul. At almost any chance he had, Paul was in action. Paul was always stirring up melodies and lyrics for their next big hit. He always spoke bravely and offered critique, no matter how harsh it may seem. Yet this week, something was wrong. There hadn’t been a change in schedule, nor did Paul’s wittiness die off. But there was something lurking underneath the surface; yet for the life of him, John couldn’t figure out what it was.

“G’wed, lad! Get us an ale, I’m dying for a brevvy.”

Parting the curtain once more was Ringo, followed shortly by George and Paul. John caught a glimpse of Paul’s face, but seeing that Paul was staring right at him, John quickly turned away. Ringo bounced in with high spirits, approaching John from behind. He exclaimed, “You miserable bastard, drinking without us are you?”

Stuck in his own thoughts, John hadn’t been aware that his bourbon had been sitting in front of him the entire time. Damn, it had been there the whole time? John swiftly took a hold of his drink and said nothing more. He looked at the bourbon and grimaced. There was ice in his drink. Of course, it was a git from Manchester to screw up his drink.

Ringo pulled up a stool beside John and lit a cigarette. Ringo was the newest addition to the band, desperately trying to piece together each member’s personalities. Among them all, John was the hardest to get along with but the easiest to read. Ringo could tell right away that John was pissed. But rather than address it, Ringo lit a second cigarette. Grinning a comforting smile, Ringo passed it to John. The two exchanged glances before John took his offer.

As Paul and George approached the bar, John kept a close eye on Paul. Paul was vividly exhausted, as he often was after any concert, but his expression remained the same: joyous and daring. Anticipating the critique, John turned to Paul and said, “Well are you going to say it?”

“Say wha?”

“Our show was shit!” There was a brief silence after John spoke, each band member uncomfortably glancing off. Paul stared at the bar for a moment, but didn’t say a word. Rather agitated, John provoked, “Are we going to pretend that tonight wasn’t total shit?”

Among the four, George spoke up, “I know I missed me cue for Kansas City and I feel absol-”

Before finishing, Paul quickly interrupted, “Don’t apologize, George.”

“But he should!” shouted John, finishing his bourbon in a final drink. Although his throat was on fire, John exclaimed, “He’s been playing that song for 3 years and missed his cue!”

“It was an honest mistake,” replied Paul, his eyes drifting elsewhere.

“ **‘An honest mistake?’** What the feck is that? I’ve never heard ye say that once, Macca. You’re always shouting at us with the whole ‘he did this’, ‘who did that’ shit.”

“Give it a rest, Johnny.”

At an instant, John slammed his glass down. Before tearing into Paul, another voice emerged from behind, “Brilliant show, lads!”

Approaching quickly was Brian Epstein, wearing his usual suit and charismatic grin. As he came towards the bar, both his hands rested on John and Paul’s shoulders.

John muttered, "It was shit, Brian.”

“The crowd didn’t think so,” remarked Brian.

“The crowd doesn’t know shit from gold.”

“You could make twelve platinum records in a week, John, and you would still find it shitty.” Brian laughed to himself, but then rather quickly added, “Speaking of which, you’ve got my next song ready for tomorrow, don’t you?”

John paused. “Ye wha?”

Immediately, Paul’s face went white. Burying his face in his hands, he muttered, “Shit.”

“Tomorrow?” John turned sharply towards Brian, brushing his hand off of him, “What the feck do ye need a song for tomorrow?”

“Paul didn’t tell you?” Brian’s expression was both stunned and angered. He scoffed, “I’m having a producer meet with you two tomorrow before the next show at the Club. He loves everything I’ve sent him, but he needs another B-side song.”

John’s face went red hot. Spinning around, he glared at Paul and shouted, “And you weren’t going to fecking tell me this?”

Still with his face in his hands, Paul muttered, “Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Yeah you forgot,” bickered John, “I don’t know what the feck’s been wrong with you this week, Paul, but I’m tired of it.”

Before matters could get worse, Brian interrupted, “All he’s looking for is a brief demo.”

“And that’s all he’s going to get.” John shoved his empty glass towards the bartender, pointing for some more.


	2. The Fifth Year

The radio burst, _“Ladies and gents, that was “My Bonnie” by Liverpool’s very own lads, The Beatles- who not long ago performed at the Cavern Club tonight at 8. Were you there? How could you NOT be there?! The Beatles is comprised of our very own Paul McCartney, John Lennon--”_

At the mention of his name, John Lennon was shaken from his sleep. Wiping his eyes, he found himself in the backseat of a car, leaning against the car window. Dazed and confused, his eyes glared outside. There was light rain. The car was on a familiar road, not too far off from Strawberry Fields. John stretched his arms, bumping into someone beside him. He turned around. Asleep against the other car window was Paul. 

John gently smiled and realizing what was happening, he asked the taxi driver, “I didn’t throw up in your car, did I?”

The taxi man, adorned in a thick mustache, answered with a thick Glawegian accent, “Aye not yet, lad. If it weren’t for the fact that your friend doesn't have a coat, I’d roll down the window if I were ye.” 

John once more glanced at Paul, who was curled up tightly and sound asleep. John’s hand gently wrapped around his waist and he spoke softly, “Paul?”

Paul whined, scrunching his face up. 

“Paul?”

His tired voice muttered, “What?”

John asked, still sobering up, “Ye da’s not going to be pissed because we’ll be writing all night, will he?” 

“Me da’s not home,” answered Paul, begrudgingly squinting his eyes open. Stretching out his arms, Paul’s eyes slowly met with John’s. John immediately pulled his hand from Paul’s waist and he quickly looked away. There was a gentle blush on his face. 

John answered, staring at the streets passing by, “That’s good. Where’s yer da, anyways?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. For whatever reason, Paul didn’t answer. Instead, Paul quickly leaned forward, pointing at the road ahead. He smiled brightly and spoke with confidence, “Turn right up on Forthlin.”

“Aye. 20, is it?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Paul nodded.

Within a minute, the car gently turned right and parked quietly at Paul’s home. From outside of his house, Paul could hear his brother Mike playing on his drum. It wasn’t a surprise that Jim McCartney would often answer the door to an angry neighbor, who would be complaining about either Mike, Paul, or John. It astounded Paul that the _bizzies_ hadn’t been called, yet. 

As Paul paid the fare, John cautiously got out of the car. John’s vision was shit, and being drunk, it was worse than shit. For all intents and purposes, John was legally blind. He stumbled to the hood of the car, where he took out his guitar and Paul’s bass. It would have been easier to ask for help, but John didn't bother. 

With the fare paid, both boys took their instruments into the home. Paul was quick to unlatch the door, opening it for both to enter. The boys were greeted with a warm smell of cedar wood and cologne. His father Jim had desperately tried to keep it clean, only for Paul and Mike to often leave it in disarray. This was the very home that Paul and John had written their best songs, sometimes for days on end. Both boys spent sleepless nights writing and brainstorming, whether it was in the living room or practicing in the bathroom. John and Paul had it to a science, so this night surely wouldn’t be any different. 

“You’re a real piece of shit, ye know that, Macca?” muttered John as the two boys headed towards the living room. He rolled his eyes, “At the very least you could have told me before the concert.”

“And at the very least you could have not gotten drunk,” joked Paul, smirking. Finding a resting place between the couch and piano, Paul sat. It was his normal spot on the rug, so he could see everything going on at once. John followed, sitting at arm’s length apart.

As Paul began to unlatch his case, he mumbled to John, “You really shouldn’t have yelled at George like that. He doesn’t respond well to yelling.”

A switch went off for John, as if his life were at stake. John’s face lit up in fury. In a swift motion John shoved Paul, and with his other hand he slammed his case’s lid down. John’s voice shouted, “Oh for feck’s sake, Paul! How else am I supposed to do ye job?”

Paul stared at him, bewildered, and scoffed, “ _My_ job?” 

It was at that point that John realized that he had said something stupid. But instead of trying to correct himself, he continued to yell, “Yes. Ye job!”

“Christ, it’s supposed to be all of our jobs to criticize!” corrected Paul, sternly. 

_Yeah, I realize that now,_ thought John to himself, red-faced that he even said that. But rather than take it back, he continued to fight, “The Paul I know wouldn’t let something like missing a cue fly easily. It’s like you don’t care anymore.”

“Care? Of course I care!” Paul proclaimed, “I would bleed out and die for every single one of yous.”

“Then what’s your problem, Paul?”

“For feck’s sake…”

“What is it?!”

“I’ve just had a real shit week, alright?!” As Paul yelled this, he turned away. His face grew red in anger. 

John’s heart began to sink. Part of John felt sorry. Oh, who was he kidding? _All_ of John felt sorry. He wanted to know more. He would have stopped everything that week if he had known something was bothering Paul. 

Yet with the fire still inside him, his empathy barked out in spite, “Well… are ye going to tell me what’s wrong or not, Macca?”

“No!” Then Paul laughed, saying with a smirk on his face,“Why would I want to talk about it to someone who obviously doesn’t care?!”

Before John could open his mouth, loud footsteps could be heard from the stairs. Standing awkwardly at the end stairs was Mike, Paul’s younger brother, with a pink mug at hand. For Mike, it wasn’t new to see John and Paul arguing. Now that John was in their house almost every night, even he and Mike would get into it, sometimes. 

John and Paul stared directly at him. Caught in an uncomfortable place, Mike said simply, “I was just going to get some tea.”

“Oh fuck it,” muttered Paul, standing up from his spot. He desperately needed to get out of the room. Unable to look at John anymore, he marched over to Mike and snatched his mug, “I’ll make it for you. Your tea tastes like a load of crap.”

With that being said, Paul left to the kitchen without another glance at John.

“Well,” shrugged Mike, “Thanks for that.”

John remained still on the rug, staring at the spot where Paul once was. Sobering up and cooling off, John began to regret everything. As John sat in thought, Mike slowly approached him. Slightly cautious, Mike softly remarked, “I heard that yous are going to Hamburg again.”

“What’s wrong with Paul, Mike?”

Mike was a bit caught off guard, “Ye wha?”

As John looked up, Mike could tell right away that John was deeply worried. John spoke urgently, “I’ve never seen him act like this. He’s normally driven and on top of things.”

“I think you’re talking about his sex life, John.” Mike laughed, grinning from ear to ear. Yet John’s face didn’t change. Mike’s smile quickly slipped, “Uh yeah, anyways. I think he’s just having a hard time dealing with it.”

“Dealing with what?”

Mike wasn’t hesitant to answer. 

“Our mum being dead. It’ll be five years on…” Mike paused, thinking to himself, “...Sunday? Today? Yeah, that’s it. She died five years ago today. Sorry, I’m not too good at dates. Paul keeps track of those things, not me.”

“Shit, I didn’t realize that was today.” 

“Really? I thought he would’ve told you, of all people.” 

It then suddenly became apparent to John: there were only a handful of times that either of them talked about their mothers. John’s mother had been killed at the time that Paul and John met. Although stricken with rage and grief, John was never comfortable in sharing that pain to anyone. And now, John realized another component of it: John never wanted to talk about his mother’s death --especially to someone who had experienced it himself. 

Leaning against the wall, Mike continued to say, “I think we all dealt with her dying differently. Well, that is except Paul. I don’t think he dealt with it at all.”

“Makes two of us, I suppose,” muttered John. 

As Paul came back into the living room, he balanced two mugs of hot tea in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in his other, and a cigarette in his mouth. His eyes were vacant. As he approached, he handed Mike his cuppa. The second mug he handed to John, prepared as John always liked it. Shoving the bottle of whiskey in his back pocket, he muttered, “‘Right then, Mike. You have your tea, now let us be.”

Before leaving, Mike glanced over to John. He mouthed something that John couldn’t read. With a brief smile, Mike turned away and went up the stairs to his bedroom.

"And without any more distractions..." spoke Paul, glaring as his brother went up the stares. Paul deeply inhaled on his cigarette, the ember glowing from the tip. Breathing it out, he said briefly, "Let's write a hit, shall we?"


	3. Somewhere

Humming and scheming, Lennon and McCartney sat on the family rug as they wrote their next song. As John strummed to find the perfect Motown chords, Paul ambitiously sorted out the melody and harmonies that would follow. They had settled on a Motown-inspired song, which would fit stunningly with the rest of  _ Please, Please Me.  _ As the night continued, John became sober and Paul drove himself into drunkness. 

Tipsy and slurred of speech, Paul search for his muse before losing his ability to do so. Shifting through his family’s albums, Paul found some inspiration. Burrowed deep behind most of the albums was the soundtrack of Sondheim’s “Westside Story”. Once taking a heavy sip of whiskey, Paul took out the album and sat it before John. Paul nervously looked for John's response. John glanced over at it and muttered with a smirk, “Westside Story?”

Paul nodded. With his feet wobbling, Paul stumbled down to the floor. He giggled softly. John always admired how childish Paul would become when he was tipsy. Paul pulled his knees to his chest and then pointed to the album, nodding and saying, “There’s a brilliant piece on this, John…”

“And you want us to, what? Steal it?” John scoffed, “No thanks but I’m not stealing from Sondheim. America would tear us to shreds.”

“Just listen, won’t you?” Taking the album, Paul got up once more. He stumbled towards the record player, where he places the record in. After a few mistrials, Paul inevitably landed on the song “Somewhere”. He spoke strictly to John, “Just listen.”

The song began with the opening lyrics: 

_ “There’s a place for us. Somewhere a place for us. Peace and quiet and open air waits for us...” _

Paul faced away from John. As John listened closely, he could hear the lightest sniffles from Paul. John tried to get a closer look, but Paul faced the opposite way, setting his eyes on the revolving record. Both boys remained in silence as the melody continued. With a grand exit, the song came to a close. As it faded, Paul lifted the needle. 

There was a moment of silence. In a raspy voice, Paul whispered, “I’d like to think that’s true, John.”

John tilted his head, “What do you mean, Macca?”

“That love has a perfect time and location. That the people you love will always be happy and safe. That you and your loved one will be in a perfect little world, that is far from chaos and even farther from death.”

Paul didn’t move. He paused for a moment, his hands trembling as it held onto the record player. His voice remained low and reverent, “But I think that’s all bullshit, John.”

As Paul turned, John could tell right away that Paul had been crying. His face was puffy, his eyes red and swollen. He stumbled back to his spot on the rug. With his back against the wall, he slid down until sitting on the carpet. His eyes could not meet John’s. There was a light tremor in his voice as he said, “At the end of  _ Westside Story _ , everyone dies. Tony is shot, Maria mourns, and so they never find that “Somewhere”, John.”

There was a brief silence.  _ Paul is right,  _ thought John.  _ When had any sort of love worked out in the end?  _ John thought of his own life, from his recent girlfriends down to his grandmother. But as he began to think about Julia, his mind quickly scattered at the thought. That was the  _ last  _ thing he wanted to be reminded of. 

Treading carefully, John spoke gently, “Maybe that’s not the point, Paul.”

Paul looked up at John.

“Maybe there’s a place,” though John, his eyes fixated on Paul, “but it’s not necessarily physical. It’s in the mind.”

“The… mind?”

“Well if you place your love in the world, it’s bound to get fecked up, don’t ye think, Macca?”

Paul chuckled and placed his hands on the rug. As Paul glanced away, John’s hands gently grasped onto his. It was an instinct for John and he was completely oblivious of it. John continued, “I think there’s too many songs about the here and now. Songs about taking a girl to a dance, taking a girl to a bed. But what about the times when things get shitty? When people grow old or sick? Maybe there’s somewhere in the mind that two people, who  _ truly  _ love each other, can exist for all eternity?”

John’s hand delicately grasped onto Paul’s, his fingers intertwining with his. It was then that Paul noticed, looking down at their hands. But Paul did not move them. Instead, he asked John, “Well. Do you believe in that, John?”

“In what?”

Paul scoffed, “In what you just said!”

Before Paul spoke once more, he clenched onto John’s hand and leaned in. Paul’s eyes were watering, his eyelashes desperately trying to hold it in. He stared straight at John and spoke directly, “Do you think that there’s a place, John, that two lovers can escape to before the World closes in on them?”

John remained in shock.  _ What was Paul trying to say?  _ For the entire time, John believed that Paul was speaking about his mother. Yet as they both held hands, only inches apart, John felt that it was no longer about his mother, but about them. John’s heart began to beat fast. 

There was undoubtedly love between both men, which neither could deny. They were each other's best friend, who could never stand a day apart from one another. But with Paul’s comment, John suddenly realized that  _ perhaps  _ it was a different love than he thought. As these strange and blinding thoughts ran through his head, John became extremely defensive. 

He drew away from Paul, pulling his hands from Paul’s immediately. In response to Paul’s question, John briefly answered, “How the _hell_ would I know that?”

Paul blinked, a gentle tear falling down his cheek. He withdrew his hands, pulling away as far as he could get. He swiftly rubbed his eyes and looked away. There was an uncomfortable silence. 

_ The clock struck three.  _

Paul slowly pulled his hands away. Searching for anything to get his mind off of this, Paul pulled out his bottle of whiskey and with one gulp, he finished the bottle. 

“I guess,” Paul spoke up, leaning towards his bass guitar, “At least it would make for a good song, wouldn’t it?" 


	4. Friday morning, 5 a.m.

A gentle breeze from the living room window brought Paul out of his sleep. He found himself on the floor with his head resting on a pillow, a bit of drool one his cheek. His hands moved around, only to find himself tucked neatly underneath a wool blanket. He fluttered his eyes open, staring at the rug he laid on. As he turned to his side, his eyes met John.

John was distant, looking elsewhere as he gently struck chords on his guitar. His back was against the coffee table, where there were scattered papers. On occasion, he would glance at them, strum a chord, and hum underneath his breath. Once hearing Paul moving, John glanced over and said, “Good to see you awake.”

“What time is--”

Right on schedule, the living room clock struck. _It was 5._ As Paul slowly began to sit up, a stinging feeling hit his stomach. He grabbed his tummy, tightening his face in pain. His head began to ring, a painful reminder to him that he had too much to drink. He gradually sat up, folding his knees to his chest. His eyes scanned around the floor, where there were an abundance of papers. The papers were in his handwriting.

“Did we finish the song?”

“About most of it, yeah.” John glanced over to Paul and said, “I think I’ve finished me harmonica part. You fancy a listen?”

Paul nodded and gently scooched in front of John. John exchanged his guitar for the harmonica beside him. His fingers delicately twiddled on the harmonica as he blew in, producing a lovely pitch. He began to gently play along, taking a glance at Paul’s lyrics, and sang,

_“There’s.... There’s a place where I can go when I feel low, when I feel blue.”_

Paul’s innate musicianship kicked in. Paul glanced over to the lyrics sheet, singing harmony, _“And it’s my mind.”_

“Aye, that’s it!” hollered John, grinning and joining in, “ _And there’s no time when I’m alone.”_

John played his harmonica once more. Rather excited, Paul’s hand reached over to John’s guitar. Although John’s guitar was right-handed, Paul picked it up and played it at ease. Very quickly, Paul moved closer to John, leaning towards him with each and every pulse of the song. 

Both boys sang with one another the second verse, _“I... think of you and things you do._ ”

Before entering again, Paul lightly hiccuped. John chuckled, continuing on, “ _Go ‘round my head, the things you said_ …”

“ _Like I..._ ” Paul joined in again, “ _love only you._ ”

The chord progression changed as they entered the bridge. There was always something magical that happened when Lennon and McCartney played a bridge. They turned in towards one another, faces bright and cheerful. The living room began to light up as John sang, “ _In my mind there's no sorrow._ ”

Paul joined in for harmony, “ _Don't you know that it's so?_ ”

Paul removed his eyes from his guitar, looking up to find John with his eyes on him. Paul was prepared for John’s usual game: quickly looking away, acting as if he hadn’t been staring. But for the first time that Paul could remember, John didn’t look away. With a gentle smile, John sang, “T _here'll be no sad tomorrow._ ”

There was an audible gasp from Paul. Paul’s voice cracked, unable to sing the response. John’s smile turned into a snarky grin and he sang Paul’s harmony, “ _Don’t you know that it’s so?_ ”

“Shit, my bad,” giggled Paul, lightly blushing and strumming harder to ease the discomfort. 

“Lighten up, Macca.”

They both entered for the final verse, “T _here’s… there’s a place, where I can go--_ ”

With his hands occupied with his guitar, Paul’s foot slowly inched up to John’s leg. His foot gently caressed his thigh, where it remained. 

Neither man lost focus.

“ _When I feel low--_ ”

John's hands rest delicately on Paul’s thigh. Paul did not flinch. 

“ _When I feel blue--_ ”

Both men leaned in, their voices resonating against each other the closer they got. They kept tight eye contact, both of their faces swelled in a joyful grin. A gentle sweat grew on their brows. 

Paul’s voice went into high harmony as John’s remained low, “ _And it’s my mind. And there’s no time--”_

Immediately, Paul’s voice dropped out once more. Yet his lips remained quivering, looking intensely as John sang, “ _When I’m alone...”_

Paul continued to play. For a moment, John’s eyes glanced over to his harmonica. He was well prepared to play the outro, until his eyes glanced up once more to Paul. Both men were face-to-face, inches apart. John could feel Paul’s light breathing, a gentle shake underneath his breath. Paul’s eyes remained fixated on John’s lips. 

John gently squeezed Paul’s thigh, to which Paul only leaned in closer. Paul winked, his face turning hot red. Paul’s fingers gradually stopped strumming, except for a finger or two that plucked E and A strings. Paul’s eyes could not get away from John’s lips. 

Gently, John’s hand caressed Paul’s cheek, his finger softly lifting Paul’s chin. John’s heart beat rapidly, his mouth gaped open in a light pant. 

It was hard to tell who leaned in first. In a soft and subtle way, Paul kissed John (or rather John kissed Paul) on the lips, a gentle smack being heard as they both pulled away. John’s breathing grew heavy, his hand squeezing Paul’s thigh harder. _His lips were sweeter than he imagined._ John leaned in once more for a heavier kiss, his finger gently guiding Paul’s chin to his. Yet as he did, Paul gently pulled away. John was left in stunned silence, while Paul began to laugh.

Paul chuckled, playful in nature, as if nothing had happened. But an undeniable, bright smile still swirled on his face. His head tilted as he asked, “How long have ye been wanting to kiss me, Johnny?”

John scoffed, “ _I_ wanted to kiss you? Yer eyes were practically begging me.”

“God, you’re a poet!” laughed Paul. As he chuckled, he laid his back down on the rug. 

John felt pressured to laugh along as well. But quickly, his smile slipped. He just had to know the truth. He turned around to see Paul and in a desperate quiver, he asked, “Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“Were you _really_ meaning to kiss me?”

There was a brief pause. John’s heart pounded even faster, almost ready to burst from his shirt. Paul took his time to sit up. He looked at John for a moment, his slurred words desperately trying to piece something together. Gradually, Paul told him, “Of course. The girls rave about you, John. I just had to get a little taste.”

John’s heart continued to flutter. He tried to keep a still face, but John’s cheeks grew hot red. Paul marveled at John’s imperfect poker face, his own face swirling in a smirk. 

“W-well…” John chose carefully his next words. If he said something careless, it could easily cost them their friendship. _Or worse,_ though John, _my reputation._ Yet if he worded it just right, perhaps their friendship could be something more.

“Did you like the taste, Macca?”

Paul did not hesitate. His eyes glanced up and he spoke with confidence, “Of course.”

Paul’s hand gently crawled towards John’s leg, where he wrapped his hands around his thigh. There was a gentle smile on Paul’s face as he whispered once more, “Of course.”

“Then…” John’s hand gently brushed up against Paul’s warm cheeks, a bit warmer than before. Paul’s head gently leaned against John’s hand. Paul's free hand reached out to John's shoulder, where he took a gentle hold onto his wool sweater. Their eyes fixated against each other. In a hushed passion, John whispered, “Want to try some more?”

Paul nodded. Paul’s face gently leaned into John’s hand a bit harder, Paul’s eyes looking irresistibly at John. Yet as John pulled Paul closer in, there was a sudden switch on Paul’s face. His face tightened up, hit with a sudden ache of pain. Like a moth to a fire, he jolted back in immense pain. He held his stomach.

“F-fuck, I t-think I--” And with a rapid spin, Paul turned away from John as he mercilessly vomitted on the family rug. He quivered as he threw up everything from his stomach.

John immediately pulled back, turning away before witnessing it. After it was all said and done, John began to laugh. He said, shaking his head, “God. Maybe my lips do taste like shit.”


	5. Always

Making his way up the stairs, John took one step at a time. He had to be careful. In his arms was Paul, who was well-passed out. John was surprised to find Paul rather easy to carry; yet when it came to the steep stairs, he took it monotonously slowly. The last thing he’d want to do was drop Paul. 

With a heavy breath of air, John made it up the stairs. He glanced down to see Paul, still fast asleep in his arms. A warm smile grew on John’s face, his heart beating a bit faster. Turning the corner, he made it into Paul’s room. Fortunately for him, the door was already open. 

Stepping inside, John instantaneously noticed the clutter, a thing that was very uncharacteristic of Paul. He kicked the clothes and rubbish out of the way. John muttered, his eyes drifting to Paul, “Yer room looks like shit.”

Carefully, John placed Paul onto his bed. He sat beside him, leaning over to grab the blanket. He draped it over Paul, tucking him in ever-so lightly. John loomed over him, his arms sturdily sat on each side of Paul’s head. There was a motionless peace on Paul’s face, that of a young boy’s. John marveled. He smiled and said, “But for being piss drunk, you don’t look like shit.”

John looked towards the window. Sunlit crept into the room. The dazzling rays shot across the bedroom wall, all the way up to the ceiling. John’s eyes followed the brilliant beams of light. It was there that something caught John’s eye. 

Gradually getting off Paul, he laid beside him and squinted at the ceiling. Taped onto the ceiling were fuzzy photos. There were three of them, all in different sizes. Each of them were dark and tarnished. It was nearly impossible to tell what the smaller photos were, but the largest one had three figures on it. John squinted more, desperately trying to make out who it was.

“For being sober, you look like shit,” spoke Paul. 

John jolted, abruptly turning around. John found Paul, with his eyes fluttering open. Paul’s head delicately turned to face John. With a cheeky grin, Paul said, “If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask.”

John’s face blush. He stammered, “Have you been awake the whole time, Macca?”

Paul nodded, “I’m a bit of a light sleeper, y’know.”

Nervously, John’s eyes flickered up again to the photos. As his eyes laid on them, Paul’s eyes gradually looked up. There was a sacred silence held between both of them. With all of his strength, John tried to figure out what those pictures were. Yet no matter how hard he tried to see it, there wasn’t any use. It was too blurry to tell.

He turned his head to see Paul. With his eyes filling with water, Paul stared directly at the photos. His hands clenched together, tremoring lightly as he stared up. That’s when John knew.

For John, the very last thing he would want to talk about was his mother. Even the thought of his mum brought vicious memories, something that John wished to completely wipe away. Yet as Paul’s tears grew heavier, a gentle sniffle underneath his nose as he tried to hold it in, John knew it was better to not stay silent this time.

John’s hands slowly reached Paul's, clasping onto them. His fingers lightly stroked his fists, soothing them. Very slowly, Paul’s trembling stopped. His hands, exhausted, fell into John’s hands. John grasped his hands, while the both of them looked up towards his mother Mary. 

As he stared intently, the silence was interrupted with Paul’s soft murmur, “Do you think about her, John?”

John’s head swung back to Paul, moderately confused. Tilting his head, he whispered, “Ye wot?”

Paul’s voice, raspy and heartbroken, continued, “Your mum.”

John was struck in an uncomfortable wave. At first, his mind urged him to pull away from Paul, walk out, and slam the door behind him. Yet his hands, holding onto Paul’s hands, told him otherwise. 

The silence between them was never-ending. As John began to think, the horrific memories and thoughts played over his head. The frequent, ongoing image of her death played in his head like a broken record glued onto a record player. There was no way for him to drive away the horrors of what must’ve happened. Painfully, he shook his head. He muttered, “Everyday, Paul.”

John shuddered, the images flooding his mind. Her, the car, the killer… John’s mind played out the scene a million times over. Everytime he imagined it, it would only get bloodier and darker. Her screams, although he wasn’t there, still haunted him to that day. His body started to shake as he tightened up, muttering under his breath, “Shit, shit…”

“Johnny?”

Paul’s hand slowly moved up to John’s chest, where he pressed lightly. Paul’s other hand still held John’s, clenching it. As Paul held him, the visions in John’s mind dramatically vanished. Everything went back to normal. At last, John caught his breath. 

John reopened his eyes, finding his eyes full of water. He turned over to his side, finding Paul beside him. With Paul’s hand on his chest, John’s heartbeat slowed. Cautiously, Paul whispered, “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I-I know how you don’t talk about it very much.”

John gave a weak smile. His hands clutched gently as he leaned in towards Paul. Lowly, John said, “Talking about her death makes it more real.”

Paul nodded, knowing exactly what his mate felt. 

“I miss her every day of my life,” John continued, “Even if I don’t show it. More often than not, all I think about is Julia.”

Paul’s eyes drifted up to his ceiling, his eyes glaring up towards his mother. He sighed, “Maybe we just dealt with our mums’ deaths differently.”

John shook his head. Pondering for a moment, his hands reached to his back pocket. 

“Maybe,” said John, as he pulled something from his pocket, “But we have a few things in common.”

John lifted the object over their heads. In John’s hands was a seashell, pearly white. He raised it over their heads, placing it alongside the pictures of Paul’s mum. John said, “I think we both need reminders that our mums are still out there.”

“A seashell?

John said, “My mum was an ocean child.” The rays of light lightly played along the shell’s coat, sparkling lightly. John softly chuckled, “I found this the night she died. I think it was her calling to me.”

John’s hands slowly lowered, as he placed the shell back into his pocket. His other hand still stayed firm in Paul’s grasp. The two of them remained looking at the pictures of Mary. 

“I wish,” Paul uttered, delicately, “I wish they could see us now.”

“I think they can, Paul.” John said, his hands clutching onto his hand, “I think they’ve seen how we’ve grown up. How you and your brother got through school, how we met George and Ringo. I think they were in the crowd at our very first concert.”

“What makes you say that?”

John replied, with a cheesy grin, “There’s a place, Paul.”

Paul chuckled, rolling his eyes, “Jesus….”

“I’m serious, Macca,” rebutted John, as they turned towards each other. John continued, “I mean… you loved your Mum, didn’t you?”

“More than anyone.”

“And if she loved you,  _ which  _ I’m sure she loved you…” John smiled, “Don’t you think that love continues?”

Paul’s eyes met John’s, finally. It was then that Paul saw John’s eyes, streaming of tears. Yet bearing a smile, John leaned in, his free hand delicately lifting Paul’s chin. John tilted his head, “I don’t think you need to believe in God or angels to believe that she’s still out there. 5 years, 10 years, 50. She is still out there for you, Macca. In the crowds, on your ceiling… she’s always there.”

"In the end," continued John, setting his eyes on Paul with a gentle smile, "the people you love never die. So if I die--"

"Christ!" interrupted Paul, "Don't say that shit, Johnny."

"Let me finish, alright?" 

Paul sighed, nodding for John to continue.

While holding onto Paul, John stared deeply into his eyes. In a deep breath, John said, "If, for God knows why... When we're 80 or 90, if _I_ die before you, I'm going to be there with you, Paul. Always."

_ Always.  _


End file.
